


Shot the Sheriff

by akitsu_47



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:22:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akitsu_47/pseuds/akitsu_47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk comes over to repair the Brobot, but an unexpected attack leaves them scrambling for shelter. Jake notices far too many things about Dirk, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shot the Sheriff

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted here from my tumblr: http://akitsu-47.tumblr.com/post/16329775759 and posted in January, so at this point it's probably a bit AU.
> 
> I suppose it kind of goes with this gif: http://akitsu-47.tumblr.com/post/16191309656

Your back presses against the wall of the cave as soon as you duck in, one pistol clutched tight in your hand as you turn to help Strider in with the other arm. He ducks beside you, breath no less laboured than yours as his back strains to deposit the dead weight of his robot onto the cave floor. Or, more specifically, what remains of it. 

You cringe at the sound the metal produces against the rocks, but never turn or comment, your eyes trained on the shallow stream you’ve came running down from and the thick foliage that surrounds it, gun aimed. Adrenaline high, you barely breathe for the next couple of moments, your breaths mismatching Strider’s. The greenery stays still, photosynthesis reserve aside, as it basks in the dying sunlight, cicadas song weaving in to the flutter of nervous but imaginary wings in your stomach - and the forest lays still. No sign of the huge seagoat. 

“I believe we’ve lost him,” you announce, arm dropping down to your side as you let your shoulders release the tension against the cool rocky wall behind you. You realise your eyes have slipped closed when you have to open them to the sound of Strider sighing beside you. He’s already bent over his precious robot when you do, his white T-shirt soaked with sweat on the back. And now that you can actually pay proper attention, the last couple of months must have been kind to him, you muse. You swear he’s been 30% slighter last time you saw him. 

“Remind me to never come visit you again,” he says evenly, turning the robot’s head to the side to inspect the wires sticking out from the deep gash in the metal. His thumb traces a couple of bullet holes which you assume he figured were fired from the very guns you’re just holstering. But it’s not like either of you are sorry. You’re not because that blasted robot made sure to keep you on your toes at all times, times in which you had to defend yourself out of the blue, and he isn’t because he’d built the machine to ready you for this exact purpose or, well, to keep your skills sharp for when they’d be saving your life. Kind of like now. 

“Ah, sod it,” you grin, lopsidedly, even though he never turns to see it, “you’d be bored without me.” 

He’s rolling the robot to the side now, trying the hanging joint of the thing’s elbow. It’s bent a little, must have taken the damage at that final slam against a tree-… But your eyes linger on Dirk’s shoulder, the way the muscles stretch… yours don’t bunch like that. In fact, you’re pretty sure they’re only supposed to look quite as defined in the movies. “I have other schedule-fillers, which shouldn’t come as any kind of surprise to you,” you hear him say dispassionately, producing duct-tape from his sylladex. He leans over to tape the robot together to prevent from loosing any parts. You watch his shoulders, arms, some more, silently. “And which would fill my days without hot sweaty rides through the jungle flora where my ass’ fate is decided by how well you aim your gun because my sword can’t reach high enough.” 

He’s pulled his irony on it seemed. Well, it was expected, he’s not happy about the robot, obviously. “That is quite a load of homoerotic subtext,” you offer back, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of your face, laving a way through the cuts and dirt you’re both covered with, the residue of the unexpected encounter. 

He turns halfway, silently, expressionlessly, and you can’t see his eyes behind those magical shades (they have to be magical, they could not still be intact after the hell and high-water you’ve been in considering their impractical shape). You don’t have to see his eyes to feel the weight of his gaze, though. It’s not accusing, because fuck if he’s ever cared about any kind of labels aside the self-appointed titles he’s come up with… but maybe you’ve caught him by surprise. Maybe you’ve even sort of caught yourself by surprise, actually. 

You shrug then, meeting his gaze with a grin. “C’mon, can’t a bloke crack an ironic joke at you?” 

“Your jokes suck, English.” He turns back to the robot, to finish taping it up for transport. 

“Not as much as your AR.” 

“Is that why you put holes in the brobot’s shoulder? Did he suck too hard, too?” 

“Is that what you’ve build him to do, Strider? So I’d have to fight for the fate of my nether regions?” 

“He’s multipurpose.” He capchalogues the broken robot, stretching slightly as he stands. The cuts and bruises are forming on his arms and forearms, his long black pants hug him wetly up to the knee from the trek down the stream, and your eyes keep lingering. 

To stop them, you turn away, scanning the forest in the failing light. “We ought to get on with it, night’s falling swiftly,” you mumble as you change the charge of your handguns, just in case. You’re grinning now and so is he. 

~

It doesn’t dawn on you until he comes out of the shower, hips wrapped in your green towel… and nothing else. 

You sit straight up on your bed unconsciously, managing an ‘I’ve left a change of clothes on the loo’, but your mind’s reeling. Yes, that funny flutter in your stomach has a name, it is called attraction. It sees the openings you don’t, supplies scenarios with very pleasurable outcomes… but there’s this other vigilante in your head called ‘rational thinking’ that puts a couple of holes in the lust manifesto before you can read too far: this is your ‘best bro’. And best bros don’t want to act on such sudden manifestos on an impulse. Or without consent. 

Truth is though, you’ve seen that manifesto before. Months back, when Strider came over for the robot’s upgrades, you had to hide in the forest. You’d pressed him against a tree trunk bodily, because his white shirt and blond hair were much more noticeable in the forest, damn him. You were roughly the same height then, you actually think you were kinda taller even. You got this intense feeling of being in charge, of protecting his scrawny pale ass, and it felt… good. Yes good, to hear his heart bomb in his chest against yours. It was too short and too weird a feeling for you to wish and delve deeper into and, three or four hormone-driven wet dreams later, you were pretty sure it was out of your system for good, whatever it was. 

Now you’re actually not so sure anymore. 

Strider sits beside you, producing your clothes from his sylladex. “They’re too tight,” he explains manner-of factly, and yes he’s got the glasses on you notice, now that you’ve managed to drag your eyes up far enough. His hair’s not gelled either, just framing his face in subtle, soft blond strands. “I’d rather stay in a manskirt than have my privates squashed.” 

“Oh boo hoo,” you mock back, grabbing the clothes in question to throw them over the side of your rocket and ammunition crate, too lazy to get up, “allow me to be appalled by the insinuations.” 

“Whatever man.” He drops on the bed behind you, face-first into the pillow closer to the wall. You turn with the rebounce to realise he’s taken off his glasses and is now holding them in his hand, body twisted sideways. You grin, taking them from his hand and kneeling over him to place them and your own glasses on the windowsill just above the bed.

He shifts between your spread thighs to lie on his back and you gaze snaps down to meet his, though his eyes are closed. You stay in place, pulling your shirt overhead slowly, eyes sliding over his built form. It’s a little bit blurry now, without your glasses, but it’s still a sight. You watch in fascination, trying to cling to the unsaid excuse of stripping off the fresh change of clothes you dorned after your own, noticeably shorter, shower. What’s keeping you enthralled is the amusement of why - why can’t you look away. Why is he so efficiently catching your attention and why do you so desperately want to do something about it. 

You shift sideways over him, not touching him, getting up to slide your shorts down, your briefs filling out. Trying to ignore the fact that you’re half hard, you slip under the covers quietly. Back sternly turned to him, you reach to shut the light off. 

The silence is kinda heavy. Had you been online, you’d most likely be bickering, considering you caught him and not the AR. But he’s here and you’re pretty sure he’s still awake because his breathing’s not deep enough and it makes your heart beat a little faster because, be as it might, he might have noticed. He might be testing you on purpose actually. And this is one test you’re not sure wither you’re supposed to pass or fail. But what you’re sure of, is the fact that you don’t want to face it just yet. 

~

You’re not entirely sure when you fell asleep, but your pillow shifts and, chasing after it, you faintly realise it doesn’t smell like it should. No, it smells better. And feels warmer… and as you blink yourself awake, you find your face tucked into the hollow of Dirk’s neck, planes of bare, pale skin expand across your bleary vision. It takes a moment, but it dawns on you that the pale turf of hair you’re blearily registering below is indeed an indicator that his towel had slipped a bit during the night and he never bothered with the covers - maybe he was too tired to? 

You suppose you should move, casually turn over and pretend you never saw anything. Never wanted to see anything. But your pulse kind of picked up with a jumpstart and you really wish your vision was better, so you could see without the blur and… yeah, whoah there. Do you really want to see your best bro naked? 

You don’t manage to answer yourself, Dirk’s hips move upwards ever so slowly, like he’s subconsciously stretching in his sleep, and the rest of the towel falls away. You swallow, pulse racing, green eyes glued to the length of the manhood that slid to his hip. Your own twitches in response under the covers and you shift your hips, pulse after pulse rushing down as with every throb your brifs feel tighter. You really, really want to reach down and touch, turn your head and just press lips, and sink teeth into the smooth line of his neck. Instead you just watch, just lay close and wish he doesn’t wake up before that vigilante in your head comes shooting at this manifesto fiesta you’re having. Your gaze locks on his nipples, small hard nubs on pulp pecks. It makes you lick your lips subtly and you’re not even completely sure why. Would you want to lick them…? Would he let you? Would he even… wake up? Surely it would be easier to pretend you were just… reaching for your glasses or something than it would straightening up from between his legs— wait, when did you imagine sucking him off—? 

“Jake.” 

You frieze, hold your breath, eyes closed. Fuck fuck fuck you were NOT staring. You didn’t see anything, you were fast asleep. 

“Jake, stop pretending you’re sleeping, your pulse is over the roof.” 

“I was in the process of hatching in ingenious way to slip aside without rousing you,” you offer, eyes still closed, lying. 

“And then what,” Dirk demands, his voice vibrating through his throat and against your forehead, “postpone facing this for another three months or so until the bot needs fixing again?” 

His tone is accusing, and to be frank, you don’t have an answer ready. It implies he noticed… hell he probably thought you’d try something the night before. And you didn’t because you’re just not used to stuff like that, and you sort of grew on your own and that was rather fine until you realised you might be growing up and might be harbouring needs you’re not completely sure how to handle. Well, you sort of know the mechanics and you do know how to rub one out and maybe a lot more - but it’s all theory. 

“Hah, well,” you start, pulling ever so slightly away. Truth be told you’re pretty eager to bolt, actually. But it’s then you realise you’ve been laying on his arm all along, because it emerges from the pillows behind your head and pulls you back. 

His eyes are aglow, amber, and you feel yourself aflame, from the tips of your ears down. 

“Can we not do this denial thing?” he asks calmly. 

Your oversized teeth dig into your lower lip, but you don’t lower your gaze. You find you can’t look away. “You do realise this is rather awkward and embarrassing?” you offer, but continue before he can attempt to answer it. “Blast it if I’m sure what you assume I’m denying—” 

He shifts, onto his side facing you, as his other hand comes cupping the excitement you had subconsciously pressed against his hip, optimistically thinking the covers were thick enough for it to go unnoticed. Your breath catches into a breathy ‘oh’ at the enlightment, knees gone jelly and you’re suddenly very glad they’re not responsible for supporting you right at the moment. 

His eyes stray down, down where he’s cupping you and yours follow, follow, but stray, distracted by a swelling shaft in his lap. Your stomach ties itself in a knot and your hips twitch into his palm. He feels the same. He can feel you, but you can see it- and as you drag your eyes back up to meet his, he’s blushing, hard. His complexion always was complete and utter crap for hiding that. 

“B-blimey…” you manage, because he’s making it hard to think and you can kiss your mental vigilante good-bye -who shot the sheriff and all- but you’re just leaning in to kiss him instead, and he helps, he’s meeting you half way. Something seems to explode with pleasure in the back of your head at the contact, shooting down your spine in Goose bumps. You barely recover from it when he leans closer, lips pressing tighter and you yield, counter, exhale ever so slowly a breath you’ve never knew you were holding. 

He’s warm, warmer by the second, his lips soft, letting you press closer, then taut, pressing back and giving you your money’s worth. You reach for him instinctively, barely knowing your hands have moved. One of them lands against the arch of his pectoral, a nipple digging into your palm because shit… you did want to touch them. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat and presses close, and that’s about as far as your awareness goes for the moment, because in the next, his hand is closing tighter over your excitement and the blanket shielding it. You gasp, jaw dropped and hips jerking into that wonderful touch- but then there’s more for you to process. He’s taken advantage of your parted lips. He traces your bottom one once, as though for warning, and then he’s pushing inside. 

You instinctively push back. It’s in your nature to nurse lightning-bolt reflexes when at your best, and this is something your body reacts to willingly. You let his tongue trace yours, glide in against the roof of your mouth with waves of pleasure numbing the brains out of you. He doesn’t have time nor the option to retract though, because you jumpstart right beck, letting your tongue glide against his, shoving it back into his mouth. Your hands slide up along his pecs, shoulders, collarbone… thumbs brushing up against the wiry line of his neck before burying up in his hair and pulling him closer. 

He stiffens slightly - you probably pulled his hair too harshly - and then he’s clawing at the green covers separating you. You help, blindly, never leaving his lips because you’re suddenly not sure if you can deal with stopping. You manage to kick the covers up from your side, and before you really think about it, you roll on top of him, diving for his lips again. He chuckles breathlessly at you, his hands warm against your hips as he guides them home. You attempt to look up at him questioningly from your nose’s worh of distance, but he thrusts up against you before you can ask what’s so funny. 

And then you believe it’s you, because your jaw drops and because his hands are on your hips, fingers splayed across your ass cheeks - though he’s not laughing at you, he’s simply smug because you’re hard as a rock, just like he knew you would be. His thumbs hook into the elastic of your pants and you erect out, swallowing a not very manly gasp. When you crack your eyes open he’s looking down, kind of flushed, and pulling your briefs down over your hips. 

That vigilante in your head threatens to come back from the dead suddenly- because you’re naked and should you really be doing this? Weren’t you hot for blue ladies only? Like the ones on your walls— but your thoughts come to a halt. He thrusts up, holds you down onto him, skin meeting skin, and all you can do is curl onto him, head tucking onto the side of his as you wait for your nerves to stop singing a hymn of mind boggling pleasure. He forgot to breathe too, because he suddenly draws a shuddering breath into your tousled raven locks. 

“Again…” you hear yourself asking, but you’re doing it anyway, hips rolling against his as your lips close against the nearest part of him, his ear-lobe, and suck. He gives a moan at you, throat vibrating alongside your own as you’re suddenly hyper-aware of the wet smear his weeping cock left along your own. You don’t even ask next time, just thrust against him again. He grabs at you, thrusts up to meet you - and you both sort of suck at timing, but you’re so hard you don’t really care what kind of contact it is. 

He tries though, to set a pace, plants his lips against your shoulder and bites when you nail it. It takes you some ten or twenty tries, but by the time those round, you’re barely coherent any more. All you want to do is sink into him, onto him, because you’re too lightheaded and mind blown to try and grasp this with reason. 

He grows frustrated with the briefs you’ve still got wedged on the tops of your thighs. He pushes you sideways and sits up to pull them off your legs, before giving you a heated glance. You’ve caught yourself on the covers, hair tousled, eyes still focusing - and he reaches for one of your knees, drawing it apart. There’s a distinct impulse that tells you his advances should have you balking, not letting you be pinned down - but he aligns himself against you and you moan, pressing up, both hips and lips, even though he proceeds to work both into the mattress mercilessly. 

It’s faster from then on, you both need it. morning light spills over the blinds on your window, glimmering off the pale planes of his back, the thrusting curve of his ass. You hold your fingers splayed over his ribs just because, fuck, they contract when he moves. And you can thumb his nipples, roll them around, and he can’t do shit with his hands planted on the rocking mattress. But he can thrust, and he does, fast, mercilessly. You long for his lips, though all too soon you realise your breath’s too laboured to keep it up… 

He’s a sight, chiselled, taut, hips poised and growing sloppy while his forehead presses onto yours, noses touching and you bloody think you’re falling in love like this. Nowhere near any kind of romantic movie setting, but it’s not like you were expecting any. Your cock is so hard it hurts and he’s whispering, saying he’s close— he’s not done saying it before he comes, muscles lock as his hips try to rock on. You grasp between you, his weeping cock and yours, and pump, feeling him twitch and spurt and shudder until you’re drunk on it, your hand slipping, as you feel your stomach muscles block. You spill between you, breath laboured, and you pull at him blindly. He comes crashing down, burying his face into your shoulder while you shudder, drowning in your aftershocks. 

One cell coming alive at a time you let your eyes wander to the ceiling, unseeing. There’s been a new sheriff elected in the mean time in your head and he’s got a brand new Declaration of Regret in the making. You lick your lips and swallow; your throat too dry from the panting to speak. “… what now?” you question, quietly. 

Dirk’s a dead weight against you, he takes a couple of moments to reply into the pillow beside your head. “Shower…” 

Your clean hand sneaks into his hair absently as your hips roll experimentally against the sticky mess between you. You’re slightly disappointed to not hear a squelch, actually. “What about… later?” 

Your question sounds strained. He stays still for a moment, before moving to plant a kiss wherever his lips reach you. “We can figure that at a later date,” he offers. 

“But you said we shouldn’t do denial,” you counter, half-heartedly.

He lifts on his elbows then, hovering over you. His amber eyes fix into yours and you swallow, half regretting you ever said anything. 

“Will you go out with me then?” he asks, somberly. 

“Yeah… okay,” you hear yourself agreeing. 

He nods, once, and curls right back down onto you, mess and all. And you watch the ceiling again, mind blown. Somebody must have killed the sheriff again, because all you can feel is unabashed happiness.


End file.
